The Mute-It Agreement

With Grandma, come a few rules.

No radio. No CDs. In fact, no music at all. No talking about drinking, partying, politics, religion and, especially, homosexuality.

Laugh at her jokes. Smile at her stories. And, for God's sake, don't argue when she complains about those "men holding hands on the beach."

When Grandma visits, appeasement is the rule of the land. We all tiptoe through conversations, often quietly laughing to ourselves or shooting glances to other in-the-know family members. Then again, sometimes, we're slowly rotting from the inside.

Sometimes. And probably just me.

I often wonder what we're afraid of happening. I used to think she'd reach out for the nearest tree branch and slap us across the face just before a lengthy, nay, very lengthy sermon about drinking/ smoking/ voting for Hillary Clinton. Pick your poison.

Perhaps, she'd toss one of those looks, the ones that say she's angered but also distressed, bothered, saddened. The one that says she has her values, and she won't budge, but that she's afraid of pushing away any more members of a slowly thinning out family.

Thus, we compromise, we appease.

Appeasement, after all, is a popular way to avoid confrontation. Wait, let me rephrase that. It's a popular way to delay confrontation. Remember Chamberlain ... 1938 ... Munich ... Hitler's unopposed conquest of a nation?

Remember the crowds cheering the British diplomat outside Downing Street when he returned, claiming "I believe it is peace for our time."

Ah. In our time.

It's not about avoiding confrontation or soothing Grandma's fragile ideals, per se. It's about protecting ourselves right here, right now. From awkwardness, a cold shoulder, even war.

So I'll keep the car silent and hide the liquor bottles and sigh sheepishly when she points out a table of women sitting next to us at the seafood joint. For now.